


DFWS

by Rag



Series: shipstuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Communication, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship, Gay Panic, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Relationship(s), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rag/pseuds/Rag
Summary: Karkat and Dave hang out and muddle through feelings together





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> karkat is written as really mentally troubled, lots of explicit self-hatred in here

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you’re enjoying your life more than you have in a long fucking time. You knew you wanted some company, but you didn’t realize how much you really _needed_ it before. It probably should have been glaringly apparent to you and anyone who gave it more than a passing thought. You created chat rooms where you talked to yourself, for fuck’s sake, just so that you wouldn’t have to be alone for more than a few minutes with your thoughts. Because talking with someone is better than talking to no one, and talking to yourself was almost like talking to someone, even if both ends of the conversation is just you hurling abuses at yourself.

God, that was pathetic. You’re happy to be totally, completely done with that buffoonery, because now you have a friend, a real friend external to yourself. And not just any friend, but a really fucking cool friend. Unlike the vast majority of your troll friends, you and Dave vibrate on each other’s frequencies, and you figure this out almost immediately. With anyone else, that weird strifing incident would be hanging thickly in the air between you like a wet reeking pile of horseshit. With the two of you, it’s just a little squawkbeast turd. Sometimes one of you steps on it by accident but you can wipe it off your shoe without too much trouble and wow, this metaphor is getting away from you, maybe you should let it go there. Suffice to say, the two of you get each other, and you get that while maybe someday you’ll be able to open up more about the agonizingly heavy weight of the ghosts that wail in your ears whenever it gets too quiet, you don’t have to rush into it. At least, you’re pretty sure he feels that way. At least, you hope he does. He probably does.

You get each other and, well, he’s really attractive, but you’re trying not to think about that. Like. He’s always been hot but you didn’t used to care? But now that doing anything about that would make things weird, it’s like you can’t stop thinking about it at all the worst times. You know better than to do anything about it, because even supposing that he’s into not only aliens but the ugliest and most annoying among them, you’re pretty sure he’s a heterosexual and would only want to date troll or human girls. So you try not to think about that, because pushing too hard or showing your gross hand of metaphorical poker cards would probably ruin the best friendship you’ve had in years. So when that horny, undersexed part of your brain whispers sweetly in your ear that things would be _so much better_ if you and Dave were friends and makeout pals, you tell it to shut the fuck up. To varying degrees of success.

There’s still not much to do on the ship, but when you spend time together with him, it fucking flies. There’s always this bit towards the start of every hangout session where you worry that the magic is dead, the spell is broken, he’s figured out what a lame freak you are and he’ll turn and leave and you’ll never see him again. But it keeps not happening, and you like to think that the worry gets a little duller every day. (it doesn’t)

Your thoughts race in several painful directions at once at the best of times, and this ship after your royal fuckup on the meteor does not make for the best of times, but when he’s around, they’re mellowed to a much more tolerable level. He should be showing up any minute now, thank god, because if you pace around for another minute in this room alone you will literally implode from within from the ever-rising pressure gauge that is your brain. It takes real, concentrated effort to not think about the fact that Terezi and Gamzee both simultaneously have fucked off, leaving you in their dust without much of an explanation. And you’re dumb, but you’re not a complete moron. You know that one or both of them should have said something by now, and their silence speaks for something in itself, but you refuse to connect those dots. Because you should have seen it coming, and you should have done something, you should have been worth more to them – no, what the fuck are you thinking, you cocky piece of shit? Did you actually think-

“Hey.”

“Thank God, I thought I was going to fall asleep waiting for you.” You force yourself to relax to the best of your ability, which probably isn’t saying much.

“Sleep if you gotta, dude. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who needs some good shut-eye as much as you.”

“No. I refuse. That’s boring and a waste of time when we already have something planned.” And because even if you weren’t lying through your teeth in a desperate attempt to not seem too clingy and invested in his company, sleep is your fucking enemy and you’re sick of trying to relax only to be woken up by shaking dread and visceral terror. No. Fuck sleep. You’ll sleep when you’re dead, or when you pass out, whichever comes first.

“Whatever steers your ship. Do I dare hope you picked something for today that’s less than treasonously bad? Does man dare hope in the face of difficulty? Oh, the audacity of ho-“

“None of my movies are terrible, so yes, I picked something good.”

“The fact that you think that tells me that you’re not ready to have this conversation. You’re too far in denial. I understand. I’ll be here for you on the other side of truth when you’re ready to face it.”

“Shut up,” you say, but you don’t mean it, and you know he doesn’t mean the shit he’s saying either. Well, he means it, but he doesn’t mean it in a mean way. He hates your movies, but he likes laughing at them, and you like spending time with him, and honestly you don’t even mind because it’s an excuse to hear him laugh and see him smile and all that other red shit that you’re desperately trying to convince yourself is entirely red. “If you want to watch something “good” so bad, why don’t you pick one yourself? You’re always so quick to judge, but you never put your own sweet ass on the line for grabbing, do you?”

“Maybe I would if you stopped talking about how sweet my ass was,” he quips back, and oh god, you realize what you just said, what is _wrong_ with you? Why do these things just spew from your mouth like food-poisoned vomit?

“It was a metaphor! For your lack of sincerity! Your ass is no sweeter than anyone else’s, and I give it no more thought than I-“

“Addendum, I’ll pick a movie if we stop talking about my ass, full stop.”

He’s right, you should stop. Your desperate attempts to recover this ground were doomed from the start. You realize this, but you have never been very good at actually stopping your gab before, and today is apparently not the day when that changes. You get a few steps over to the movie shelf before your verbal diarrhea disgorges itself from your throat.

“You know I didn’t mean that in a creepy way, right? We’re just friends. And not pale friends, I know that, but like, human friends. I get that the troll stuff freaks you out, and I don’t want to freak you out, and.” Your. Mouth. Is. Running. Away. There it goes. You watch it gallop off into the sunset straight into a stupid implosion of mistakes and regret. You wish you were alone, so you could metaphorically slap some sense into it.

“This one looks good,” he says, pulling out Sarah Nolan Is A Divorced 30-Something Whose Family Insists On Playing Matchmaker. After Her Sister Sets Up a Profile For Her On A Dating Website, Sarah Goes On A Number Of Outrageous Dates Before Ultimately Finding And Connecting With Jake Anderson; The Two Initiate Flushed Relations But Have a Falling Out Upon Learning That […]

 “Really? Does that really look good to you? I like all of these but I have to admit that one kind of sucks.”

“That’s entirely the point. How long have we been doing this, Karkat? The worse the movie, the better the night. You see, it’s not about-“

Your brain helpfully supplies images of you and Dave doing something entirely different, involving his ass, which, wow, you lied, is fucking great (stop! stop!) and you’re really glad he’s walking away to put the movie in because you’re making a dumb face and your disgusting mutant blood is probably coloring your cheeks.

At least he’s letting the ass subject die. Thank you, Dave, you mentally telegraph to him, because no, you are not starting it back up again a third time.

The two of you settle on the couch. You set this room up long before you started hanging out with him, in those painful months after Terezi and Gamzee fucked off. You just kind of holed up in here, and you had more than enough time to scour the ship looking for the most tolerable furniture and decorations and the most aesthetically pleasing layout for them. As such, the room is comfortable as fuck. The couch is big enough for the two of you and then some, but you feel like the two of you have been creeping closer and closer together every time you watch something. And maybe it’s your imagination, but it almost seems like your legs are almost touching today? It’s too dark to see, and you can’t feel his knee against yours, but you feel the heat of him on your skin and. It’s hard to stay calm in the face of that, but you valiantly manage, because you have to.

The movie starts up, and it’s just as average as you remember, but Dave immediately laughs and starts shredding into the admittedly lackluster writing. About 15 minutes in, you definitely feel his knee touching yours, and he doesn’t pull away like he usually does, the few times you’ve accidentally brushed against each other. Your brain explodes, killing you instantly, metaphorically.

You shouldn’t, you know you shouldn’t, but he seems okay with it and you. Maybe. Sneak a little closer until your thighs are flush (ha, ha, choice of words, _stop_ ). He doesn’t pull away.

Is he red flirting with you? Is he coming on to you? Maybe this is human flirting. That’s all it could be – no, no it’s not, it can’t be that. This is _you_ you’re talking about, and Dave is a human male, so you are categorically shunted from that category for him to begin with. He’s just. Cuddly. Dave is cuddly and has taken a few weeks to work up to this, because he’s shy. It makes sense. Your bulge is not buying it. Your bulge is convinced that this is the first overtures of the steamiest flushed romance you’ve ever had and any minute now he’ll lean over and whisper in your ear how badly he wants you, how he’s been starving to take you (like he would _ever_ say it like that) and.

You’re aware that Dave is saying something about the movie, but you can’t focus on it, not over the bees buzzing in your brain. He laughs, and you laugh along, and it passes for an acceptable response because he doesn’t question you further.

 You try to pay attention to the movie. You make a valiant effort. And maybe you even get close to understanding a line when he full on leans against you. You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat as your brain screams at you at least seven different possibilities of what this might mean, all of them contradicting each other.

You feel him lock up, then pull away.

“Sorry. Uh. Don’t want to make it weird or interrupt the cuddle magic. Uh. Just, you seemed down to snug and no one else is around to give us shit for it and I guess I should have asked shouldn’t I? Sorry about that, kind of a huge dick move on my part to just assume, I should-“

He’s doing that nervous babble thing and you can see a hot red flush spread across his cheeks and down his neck – you used to think you had a really prominent blush before you met him, but he lights up like a fucking stop sign when he’s embarrassed.

“It’s fine!” you say. “It was fine! It was good!”

“It was? I’m not weirding you out? Pressuring you with my platonic bro cuddle advances?”

Against your better sense, the word “platonic” still stings, but it’s not enough to drown out the rush of exhilaration that he actually _wants_ to cuddle with _you_.

“No. Come back here with them. Cuddletown is population: us, for as long as you’re down with it.”

He grins and slings his arm over your shoulder and leans into you against and you’ve died, you’ve died and gone to heaven, because it feels so warm and good and fuzzy and safe and all this other weak (not pity not pity) shit. Your heartbeat flies into high gear and you hope he can’t hear it or feel it. The two of you aren’t _that_ close, so you’re probably fine. But what if? No, it's fine.

You're probably imagining things, but you feel like he’s a lot less clever with his comments than usual. He lets at least two golden opportunities slip right by. Other times, he waits a few awkward seconds too long before delivering some seriously sub-par commentary. It almost seems like he’s having trouble focusing, too? But that. Probably isn’t right. You’re misreading the situation. And even if he was, it probably has nothing to do with you, just with the fact that he’s cuddling someone.

You’ve never been good at reigning in your expectations. You should be happy enough with this, because it’s amazing and it’s so much more than you ever would have expected from him, or anyone after Gamzee, you shouldn’t want more, but here you are with your stupid fantasies that he’s feeling the start of a flushed crush for you. Stupid.

By the time the movie ends, he’s wormed himself around you so close that you’re practically hugging, and while you’re still pretty fucking giddy, you’ve calmed down a bit.

Neither of you move as the credits roll. For your part, you really don’t want this to end, because he feels really good and soft and you feel warm and safe and good like this. But with every second that ticks by, the awkwardness of lingering grows. And then he sits up and stretches. Neither of you turn the lights on, and you both stare at the title screen as the terrible 30-second loop of soft pop rock plays over and over on a still shot of John Cusak.

You try to think of something to say, but your usually-overflowing well has runneth dry.

“Good shit,” Dave says. “By which I mean terrible shit. We should watch a sci-fi next time.”

“I told you it was bad, dude. You knew it would suck.”

“Yet somehow it exceeded my expectations.”

“I have a few sci-fi ones. You want to watch it now?” The two of you can and have watched movies for the better part of the day together. Sometimes you chain three or four together, in combination, making like the main character from the first movie was also the main character of the second movie, etc. You’re both a little bored out of your minds, but you’re making your own fun.

“Nah, man. I forgot something I have to do. In my room. I forgot something in my room. A book. I have to read it.”

“Uh.” You. Couldn’t have heard that right, because that was really fucking weird, even for him. “A book?”

“Yeah, it’s serious shit, end-times, just remembered, the title screen brought it up, aren’t memories weird like that? Uh, I’d tell you more but it’s a secret, gotta keep tight lips on it. Like. So, I’ll see you around. Later today?”

He’s acting really fucking weird, and you can’t begin to understand why. “Sure?”

“Okay, cool, see you.” And he’s gone in a flash.

He usually doesn’t use his time powers to leave. You try not to freak out, but you’re pretty sure that somehow, you fucked up. You don’t know what you did wrong, but you did something wrong. God, you really must have fucked up. You feel the warmth from where he was cuddling against you fade into a chilly nothingness. You fucked it up, the best thing you’ve had in months, maybe ever-

You realize you’re spiraling, and that you don’t _really_ have any rational reason to think you did anything wrong. So you do what you can to stop. You breathe as deeply as you can manage and force yourself to give it a few hours. Because maybe he really is just reading a really important book. More likely, he has something important to attend to, that he doesn’t want to tell you about, for perfectly understandable reasons. If so, guess what the quickest way to freak him the fuck out is? Having his human-alignment friend knocking on his door, demanding reassurance because he left the room too suddenly. Yeah, no, you can’t, you cannot do that. You did that with Terezi and you know exactly where that gets you.

You breathe, you resist the urge to start up a chat room with yourself, and you root around for something to distract yourself with while he’s away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i stopped being a gotdamn coward and added the 'unhealthy relationships' tag to this bc theyre happy and theyre trying but karkat is not capable of being in a healthy relationship if this is how his mind works  
> also http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6cxjgMJy71qmpmfvo6_1280.gif same

Dave comes back. You should have seen this coming, given the fact that he said he would, and the fact that nothing you did was identifiably weird or line-crossing right before he left, and given the fact that you know Dave has personal space issues and maybe he just needed to unpack some baggage privately. You should have seen it coming. But in the hour or so it takes before he comes back, against valiant mental efforts, you manage to convince yourself that he’s gone forever because of your unbelievable, if unidentifiable, fuckups. You don’t know what you could have done differently, but isn’t that always the problem with you? You suck, fundamentally, through and through, and you should probably just give up on people altogether.

But, Dave comes back, and that whole mental spiel becomes incredibly obnoxious upon reflection.

If you could learn to chill for like two seconds, your brain would probably implode.

“Yo, what’s up? Are you still down for more movies?”

He seems like he’s calmer than he was when he left, not as prone to manic rambles. The book thing was obviously a lie, but he probably needed space, because you probably invaded his space with the cuddle sesh.

“Yeah, for sure. Here’s all my sci-fi.” You’ve already laid them out, in alphabetical order, waiting for him to come back, because it killed a few minutes and you needed something to do. You wish you’d had the foresight to mix them up a little, because that’s probably weird – but no, he won’t notice, that would be weird-

“Did you alphabetize them?”

“No! They just came out like that!”

“Dude. It’s ok to alphabetize shit. I’m more of an aesthetics man myself, but I kinda get the appeal. Not having to memorize random patterns and rely on intuition alone. No shame in taking the easy way out.”

“It’s not the easy way out. Your way is insane and makes no sense.”

“I mean, it’s all French to _moi_.”

“What the hell is French?”

“Unimportant. You guys didn’t have Troll France, though? Really? I figured France would be a universal constant.”

“Is that a person? A place? A thing?”

“Yes. Here, put this in, I’ll get the lights.”

He hands you a movie that the two of you have watched before, which he insists is called Hancock and which he refuses to acknowledge by its proper title. You go along with it, but it’s ridiculous. Human titles are so ridiculous and short. What does “Hancock” tell you about the film? Jack diddly squat, except the main character’s name. How could you ever decide whether or not you wanted to watch something like that? Impossible. Humans were ridiculous. You put the movie in and turn out the lights.

He doesn’t sit as close to you this time. Actually, the two of you aren’t even touching at all. You’re not forced apart like same-type magnets, but you practically feel the space between you. You know you shouldn’t, and you do think better of it, but two seconds after the thought crosses your mind, it’s out of your mouth.

“Did I take the … did I go too far? Was it too close? If so, I’m sorry and I won’t do it again, unless you want to, but I just mean that you deserve tons of space, especially-“

“Nope. You’re fine.” In the moment it takes to digest his words, you realize that you almost just said something along the lines of _especially given your issues with that stuff_ , jesus shitting dicks. You pray that you would have phrased it more delicately, but you are. So. Glad that he stopped you where he did. “Just think we should hold up, sit still. That shit is a jar of molasses and we just tipped it straightways upside down. Shit’s gotta be more of a drizzle. Shit’s gotta take its sweet ass time touching down in that cup of tea. Boil that frog slower than the speed of light, is what I’m getting at.”

Not for the first time, you wish he didn’t couch everything in stupid nonsense metaphors. But you’re glad he’s talking to you about this at all, instead of changing the subject entirely, and if you demand further clarity he will probably do exactly that.

So you watch the movie, not touching at all, and you try to not let it feel weird, and you fail, but at least you manage to keep it to yourself.

-

The frog is boiled. Slowly. After the first few days of it you just come to accept that the cuddle session was just a one-off, because he doesn’t even seem to want to high five you anymore. And whatever. That’s fine. That’s not ideal, but it’s fine. Some people just aren’t all that touchy-feely. You misread the situation. You’re prone to do that.

You have more than a few flushed dreams and daydreams about him. You hate them. They are anathema to the core of your being. Fuck off, pointless delusions, he’s not fucking interested.

And then one day and he just plunks himself down so close that he’s practically on top of you. He must feel you tense up.

“Is this cool?”

“Yes,” you say tightly.

You try to focus on the movie, but you can’t, because your stupid fucking delusions are back with a vengeance. Kisses! Tender caresses! Kind words! Fuck _off!_

“Dude, are you seeing this?”

“Seeing what?”

“Are you paying any attention at all?”

“Of course I am! I’m watching the movie! What the hell else would I be doing?”

“Needing a map because you’re lost in my eyes? It’s cool, I get it, they’re fucking mesmerizing, you wouldn’t be the first or the last.”

“Shut the fuck up, you can’t even see them behind your stupid glasses and you know it.”

“You think my glasses are stupid? I’m hurt, Karkat. You hurt me.”

“If that’s all it takes to hurt you, you’re weaker than I thought.”

He pauses at that and your mind quickly fills in all the miserable possible ways that you massively just fucked up. “Anyway. Is this … gonna make stuff weird?”

“No.”

“Because it kind of seems like it is.”

“No. It’s fine. I just.”

He waits. You. Don’t know how to communicate this without spilling the beans completely. All of the beans, every variety of them, with nary a strip of grubfat to break up the gross beany pile. The problem is solidly and completely that you can’t shut off that touch-starved part of your brain that is desperate to fill up your quadrants as fast and efficiently as possible like a _useless, pathetic wriggler._

“You …?”

“Haven’t done this in a while?” you mumble, and it’s true, so hopefully it doesn’t seem like such a lie. “I mean, not outside of like.”

He stares at you.

“Gamzee?”

He stares at you some more. You can’t see his eyes but it feels harder. “ _Gamzee_?” he asks slowly.

“Don’t say it like that, it wasn’t some steamy bottom rack flushed shit, it was just-“

“Wait, no, you’re not kidding? Gamzee? You? Cuddle buddies?”

“Actually, can we talk about literally anything else? There’s nothing I would rather talk about less right now. Or ever.”

“Oh. Yeah. Anyway. Uh. If this is weird we can stop. Especially uh. Given that. Holy shit, this ship is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.”

“You’re not wrong about that. But it’s not weird, the. Thing between us. It’s not. Don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t speak for a few minutes. “Not gonna lie, it feels kinda weird.”

“Well it shouldn’t!”

You feel yourself getting really riled up. You feel like you’re backed into a corner and you should probably shut the fuck up now but you can’t, because that’s never been how you respond to being backed into a corner.

“And yet here we are, population _dos_ in Weirdton.”

“Well then, let’s just stop it! Cut it out all together because clearly we’re not mature enough in the bulge region to handle this.”

His mouth drops open. It looks like he’s stuck on a word that’s not coming out.

Your gross blood runs cold as realize what you’ve said.

He scoots several feet away from you.

“I. Uh. Dave, I-“

“I’m. Gonna go.”

You’re too shocked to defend yourself, so you don’t say anything as he leaves. Which might actually be for the best, hahahaha, because you _cannot_ shut the fuck up and stop making things worse with every moronic elucidation that dribbles from your vomit sack.

The movie keeps playing in the empty room. You can’t focus on it, but you leave it on and try to calm down. Because. You are not calm. You are shaking. You did it, you did the one thing you weren’t supposed to fucking do. And now he’ll never fucking talk to you again because you’re a disgusting piece of shit who wants into his pants and now he _knows that_.

You suck.

-

Two hellaciously long, boring, uncomfortable days pass before you see him again. During which you run over the situation over and over. You are doomed. You are doomed to be alone forever, because you are literally the worst. You are painfully aware that he is avoiding you.

You cave and break your three-week streak and make a dumbass chatroom with yourself. You clear it after every session because you don’t want to be reminded of the shit you say in there. You absolutely let yourself know what a useless, reeking pile of garbage you are, with the emotional wherewithal of a squashed gnat.

And then there’s a knock on your door, and when you open it he’s standing there. Your heart threatens to beat out of your fucking chest.

He’s probably just here to tell you that any blossoming friendship is completely fucking over between the two of you, but there’s some stupid part of you that still hopes that’s not the case.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Can we talk?”

You would love to die, immediately.

“Yeah.”

He comes inside and closes the door behind him. He shuffles a little, looking mostly at the floor.

“I, uh. You’re, really cool, and I. Like, you’re rad. Super fucking cool.”

 _But I’m just not into you like that and it disgusts me that you’re into me like that so let’s just, uh, not, ever again._ You wait for it. You brace for it.

“I’m just, like. I mean. But, like.” He takes a deep breath. “Words, Dave. Ok. I’ve been thinking a lot?”

He waits for you to respond. You nod.

“I just, like. You’re a guy? You know? Like, you’re a troll but you are absolutely, unquestionable, straight-up a guy.”

“I know, I’m sorry, you’re a heterosexual, I didn’t mean that-“

“Wait. I mean. Maybe. I mean, probably? I mean, like. But like.”

_What._

“So I’ve been thinking and like. I mean. Ok, wait. Do you like. Are you like. Into me? Like that? Should probably clarify that first. Jesus shitting dicks I should have clarified that first. Oh my god, why did I not clarify that first.”

You see a chance, and you grab for it. “No! No, not at all.”

He deflates. Which is. Something. What the fuck is happening.

“Oh. Holy shit. Oh my god. What the fuck. Ok, well. Ok. Well this conversation doesn’t need to happen then, does it? Hah. Oh boy. Ok. I’ll just, uh-“

“What? What if I was?”

“Irrelevant. Irrelevant completely and totally because you’re not-”

“But what if I was?”

He does that fish-open mouth thing.

You. Are the worst. At everything.

“Getting some mad mixed signals from you, bro.”

“Of course you are, because I’m the fucking master of mixed signals.”

“What.”

He’s staring at you, baffled, because you’re not making sense.

You wait before you speak (miracles can happen!) and decide not to go down that route again. Because this might go up in flames if you don’t, but it definitely will if you do, and. You don’t want to make the same mistakes with him that you made with her, which made her dump your ass for him, because he’s great and can make up his fucking mind- irrelevant, irrelevant, task at hand. You take a deep breath and try to plan out what you’re about to say.

“Maybe I. A little bit? But I respect. That you don’t want that. And I don’t want to. Like.”

“Karkat, you dirty liar.” He laughs weakly. “Ok, I guess this is happening.”

“Can you please cut to the part where you tell me to fuck off? I’m going to fucking die a slow and painful death prolonging it. I get it’s hard but have some fucking mercy, please.”

He takes a deep breath. Lots of breathing, here. “I. Don’t want to do that. Is the thing.”

_What._

“What.”

“Yes, see, therein lies the rub, because I don’t want to do that, and you don’t want to do that, and we both have this thing that would be kind of probably a great idea but it’s mad complicated by shit that may or may not actually matter, like- like the Terezi thing, that’s pretty fuckin’ weird, also the straight thing, which might not be a thing, upon certain reflections which might or might not mean anything-“

“What.”

His voice starts to shake a little as he keeps going at this dizzying pace. “I mean, let me finish, what I’m saying is, like, there’s too much shit, and it’s weird, and I don’t know what to make of it because you are absolutely a guy, like, there is just no dancing around that, no tango to be done around the fact that you are such a fucking guy, straight-up a dude, also that we dated the same chick, not too fucking far off in the past, that’s pretty fucking weird too-“

“Wait.”

He actually stops.

“You?”

“I, uh. Yeah?”

That takes a lot to process. The sick feeling in your gut is replaced with something a lot more exciting and uncertain. Still nerve-wracking. But less painful?

“I mean I thought about just like. Snip snip, there goes the ties,” he mimes scissors with his hands, which you get the feeling has nothing to do with communicating anything and everything to just be doing something with his hands instead of wringing them into tight fists at his sides. “I don’t really want to, uh. I mean, I’m straight? Ish? I thought? I mean, like. But cutting you off would be so fucking shitty. And stupid, probably?”

“You like me?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, flushed?”

“Probably?”

“What.”

“I mean, where you want to like. Fuckin’. You know.”

“For how long?”

“God, I don’t know, I didn’t write it down in my diary. Dear diary, today wanted to kiss Karkat for the first time, what the hell is that about, I’m not even gay. No, I don’t know, a few weeks?”

He wants to kiss you?

“A few _weeks?!_ ” That’s. Longer than you’ve even been thinking about it.

He starts laughing nervously. “Don’t make it weird, dude.”

It’s infectious, the awkward laughing. You realize you’re smiling, against your higher thoughts. It probably looks weird, but you can’t control it and you feel like you need to channel this buzzy energy into _something_ or you’re going to explode.

“How am I making it weird! It’s not weird! It’s great! It’s perfect! How perfectly fitting! It-“

“But. Wait. Ok. Wait. I didn’t. Plan for this to happen. Honestly. I didn’t plan for much at all, really. I just wanted to like. Let you in on shit. So you didn’t flip out too bad. Because. It seemed like you probably would.”

Mission kind of failed, but you don’t tell him that. Actually, you’re really fucking flattered that he thought of that at all. Because yes. You flipped out. And this helped.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“But like. If we- oh my god, we’re doing this?” He’s changing conversational courses so quickly, you have some trouble keeping up. “Are we doing this?”

“Are we?”

“I, yes? Can we? But like. No promises and shit? Because maybe I’m straight? Shit, yeah, I mean, I went into this straight, I’m probably straight, and I’m probably not full yaoi for you-“

“Can I just say right now that I think it’s complete fucking nonsense that your species has to choose one or another? Because I’ve been _trying_ to be respectful but that makes no fucking sense and if I have to sit on it another day it’s going to give me a fucking hemorrhage.”

“We-“ he stops. “Huh. Hm.”

“What?”

“We. Don’t _have_ to like one or the other? We just usually do. Maybe. Maybe not! There aren’t a whole lot of us left, so who cares at this point? Anyway. Taking it slow? Backing out as an option? Not calling it matespiritship or anything ooshy-gushy like that? And I still want to be friends if the Titanic hits an iceberg, and all that sappy shit.”

“That’s probably the least sappy way to say that.”

“Metaphor working as intended, then.”

“… Yes. To all that.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely yes.” You’re fucking dizzy with a combo of elation and mood whiplash and excitement. Yeah, those terms are pretty fucking perfect as far as you’re concerned. Not that you wouldn’t love to call it a matespiritship and take it speeding down the track like a racecar with nothing to lose. But this is fucking. Great.

The frantic energy between the two of you seems to fade immediately, replaced by something awkward and quiet.

“Holy shit,” Dave says. He raises his hand to his mouth and you realize he’s laughing, very quietly. He leans against the wall and sinks to the floor.

“Are you okay?”

“You’ll take it slow, right? For real? You’re fine with that? Because I can’t, like. I don’t want to, like. You know?”

“No, actually, I don’t know. Use your words.”

“Fuck. Just, I might back out. That’s real. But I might not.”

“Oh. Yeah, I got that from before.”

“Ok. I just wanted to like. Make sure.”

“Holy shit.”

“Verily. Ok. Ok I. Need to be alone. Ok. I’ll be back. Ok.”

“Ok?”

And he’s gone in a flash. You blink a few times and try to make sense of what just happened.

So you’re an item now? Apparently? Maybe you dreamed that, maybe you’re asleep, because never in a thousand sweeps would you imagine this outcome was on the table. You’re and Dave are some variety of item that may or may not be some variety of flushed and may or may not stay that way. And in any case, he’s not going to dump you on your ass for being flushed for him. Huh.

Maybe you’re not such a worthless, useless piece of shit after all. Maybe you should stop being so fucking hard on yourself all the goddamn time.

You’re not really making any progress on the puzzle that is this thing when he comes back. He looks just as nervous and excited as he did before.

“Ok. So. Test run?”

“What?”

“With the lip-smackin’ goodies. The perks of consummating the budding flower that is this shit.”

“Now?” Your voice cracks like a goddamn fool as your heart starts to race.

“Yeah?”

“Y-yeah. Ok.”

“Sick. Lay it on me.” He snaps his fingers and points at his lips as if there was any possibility that you didn’t know what to do next.

“I don’t need a fucking landing strip, I know how to do this.”

“Prove it.”

Right. Proving it.

(holy shit???????)

You lean over and close the gap between you and he seems to think it’s a great time to do the exact same thing and jams his head into your nose and.

“Fuck, ow.”

“Fuck. Fuck I’m sorry. Fuck. Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.” It hurts, but not much could stop you from sealing the deal at this point.

You go a little slower this time, both of you, maybe a little too slow, but it’s fine because it means that you actually connect the right bits of you and. Kissing. Is happening. It’s soft and slow and tentative but. Really good. He doesn’t pull away for a long time. When he does, he’s smiling.

“Wow. Ok. Ok. Well, that was cool. Good job. Let’s do it again sometime.”

You’re kind of at a loss for words. So you nod.

“Are you ok? Did I break you? Are my sick skills that fucking good?”

You laugh. “Shut up, oh my god.”

He takes your hand. “Ok. So. Ok. Ok-“

“If you say ok one more time I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Ok. Fuck. No. Ok- fuck.”

“Dave-“

“ _So._ We’re doing this.”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. Good. Cool. Ok.”

-

You watch a movie or two. And cuddle. It’s good, and not awkward anymore, but it’s so fucking giddy that neither of you are very clever and you laugh at shit that isn’t funny because it does something to relieve the bubbling fizz that is the soda of your new arrangement.

He kisses you again before he leaves for the night. Says something cheesy about “let’s do it again tomorrow.”

You wait until you’re sure he’s out of earshot to do a happy little dance. You make sure all the doors are closed because it’s stupid but. Heh.

That went. Absolutely better than your wildest fucking dreams. Shit. Wow! Incredible. Fuck. The idea that he might decide to cut it off still gnaws in your gut a little bit, but the excitement drowns out most of it.

Wow!

Amazing.

Fuck.

You don’t manage to sleep, which isn’t saying much, but when you doze off for the night in your little half-naps, you’re still smiling.


End file.
